The Boscombe Mystery
by MrsStarkey
Summary: A Johnlock fic based on the original ACD story, "The Boscombe Valley Mystery". I tried to make it follow the original as best I could. It is multi-chapter and does, in fact, have a plot. Rated T for author paranoia
1. Chapter 1

**Okay, so this story is based around the story by Arthur Conan Doyle called "The Bascombe Valley Mystery"**

** The mystery will be present in the story, but it won't be the absolute center of things, as this is a Johnlock fic. I basically read the story and thought it would be fun to make a modern adaptation in a fic, so here it is! **

Breakfast at the Watson house wasn't a cheery affair. In fact, nothing at the Watson house was a cheery affair as of late. Their marriage was crumbling around them. They rarely ate together anymore and they spent their nights watching crap telly at either ends of the couch. They hadn't had sex for two months.

This morning was like most others. John entered the kitchen with a grunt that meant, "Good morning" and Mary glanced up at him from her coffee cup, not bothering to voice a reply. A plate of toast was waiting for him as well as a lukewarm cup of coffee, and John sat in his chair and ate it in silence while Mary got ready for work and eventually left. This was every morning since the loss of the baby.

John had always questioned his happiness in the marriage, especially after finding out Mary's "little secret". Still, they had now gone from acting like not-so-close friends to acting rather hostile toward each other, especially on Mary's part. After the loss of their child, everything holding the relationship together seemed to collapse. John sighed and wiped his face. He didn't know how they were going to fix this. He didn't even know if this _could_ be fixed. As he was clearing his dishes, the counter vibrated.

his phone.

he dried his wet hands and reached for it. Upon looking at it, his heart leaped at a message from Sherlock.

**Case. -SH**

**Details? -JW**

**No time. Will take a few days. Meet me at King's Cross ASAP -SH**

John sighed. This would be at least a two-day affair. He hastily texted Mary before hurrying upstairs to pack a few necessities.

**Got a case. Probably won't be home for a few days. love you. -JW**

He knew she wouldn't be happy with such short notice, but he didn't care. He grabbed his keys and walked out the door, an overnight bag over his shoulder.

"Good, John, you've arrived right on time." Sherlock greeted him as he stepped onto the platform. John was a bit surprised to to see that Lestrade was there with him, looking tired and a bit cranky. He thought it rude to ask why Greg was coming along, so he let it be and allowed Sherlock to lead them into their compartment. John and Sherlock both sat by the window across from each other, while Lestrade sat on the opposite end of Sherlock's side, by the door. They had barely sat down before Sherlock started explaining the case.

"Lestrade informed me of it last night. A girl from Bascombe called The Yard, trying to find me. She obviously doesn't read my website. It's an apparant murder case"

His eyes lit up with that familiar fire when he said this and Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"Just get on with it, Sherlock" he said exasperatedly.

"Gladly" Sherlock replied dryly before continuing.

"Charles McCarthey. He is a man from Bascombe- where we will arrive in about three hours time- who was murdered by Bascombe Lake just last week. He left his house around three in the afternoon last Friday, his destination unknown. A gamekeeper witnessed him walking down the road, and then witnessed his son, James, follow him some five minutes later with a rifle in hand. He didn't think anything of it until he heard about what happened that evening, from his wife."

Sherlock paused, obviously not finished, and waited from any questions or comments from John. When there weren't any, he continued.

"A sixteen year old girl named Patty Moran, who is the daughter of the local motel owner, says she was in the woods near the lake when she saw the McCartheys- both junior and senior- arguing. She said it was harsh and she thought it would get violent. She ran home, then, to her mother to tell her that the McCartheys were fighting. Soon after she told her mother, James arrived (The motel is closest to the lake) saying he had found his father dead in the woods. The local police investigated to find Charles McCarthey dead from blunt force trauma to the head. Naturally, the boy was arrested"

Sherlock sat back in his chair to show that he was finished, and John looked at him with his lips slightly ajar.

"I don't understand. Why are we here, then? It's been solved!"

"The woman who called me was convinced that he didn't do it, and demanded for me to contact Sherlock. What was I supposed to do?" Said Lestrade, annoyed.

"What, so we are going all the way to bloody Bascombe just to appease this woman?" answered John increduously. This was mad. Absolutely mad.

"John, I am quite sure the young man is innocent. We are going out to Bascombe to prove it." answered the detective calmly. He almost looked amused at John's anger.

"Sherlock, how could he possibly be innocent?" John asked, at his wit's end. Sherlock was much too impulsive for John's liking. For someone who claimed to not have feelings, he relied simply on impulse quite often.

"When he was arrested he was not in the least surprised or upset. On the contrary, he expressed his complete understanding of why he was accused. Most would take this as a confession, but this was followed immediately by a complete denial."

John just looked at him, dumbfounded, and Sherlock took this as an invitation to explain.

"_Obviously _if he were guilty, he would try and feign disbelief. By expressing his understanding of why he was arrested, it leads me to believe that he is innocent."

Lestrade rolled his eyes again and John thought this over in his head. It made sense. God, this man was bloody brilliant. Before he could voice this opinion, however, Sherlock seemed to have retired to his mind palace.

"This git is going to drive me crazy" mumbled Lestrade. "I'm going to go have a proper breakfast."

he left the compartment, grumbling as he went, and John couldn't help but chuckle. He looked at the detective who was seated right in front of him, and smiled.

His face was completely relaxed and his features soft. It was times like these when John really got to see the sheer beauty of his friend. He looked at him for a long while, almost in a trance. His eyes roaming over the raven hair, the sharp cheekbones, the alabaster skin, the defined cupid's bow, the elongated neck. The top two buttons of his light blue shirt were unbuttoned and John could almost see his chest-

Wait a second. _Wait. A. Second._

He realized what he was doing and immediately shut his eyes, massaging his temples. This was getting to be too much.

_I am married. Sherlock is my friend. I am NOT gay._

He looked up again. The detective's Adam's Apple moved down his neck as he swallowed and John shut his eyes once more.

_I am not aroused right now. I am NOT aroused right now. _

Not able to get Sherlock out of his head, he continued to repeat these thoughts until he drifted off to a light sleep from which he didn't wake from until they arrived at Bascombe.


	2. Chapter 2

**Alright, I will try to update as fast as I can, but be warned: I have finals this week. BLAH!**

**Also, disclaimer: I am American. I don't know anything about Boscombe Valley- I'm not even sure it exists. I'm simply writing about it the way that it was in the ACD story in order for it to make sense. :) **

**Also, I understand that this is Johnlock, but It's also a mystery. I promise there will be some Johnlocky stuff. Pinky promise. Don't kill me.**

**Without further ado, Here is chapter 2!**

**Holy crap, that rhymed!**

"John! We're leaving." the baritone voice muttered as John recieved a hard pat on the shoulder. The tired doctor staggered out of his seat and grabbed his bags from the overhead rack just as Sherlock's long coat swished out of sight. He ran to catch up and followed the detective out of the train and into the blazing sunlight.

It really was beautiful. John was so used to London, and this change of scenery was great. He hadn't visited the countryside in a while, so everything seemed fresh and new. He followed Sherlock- who seemed to know exactly where he was going- off the platform with Lestrade closely behind, apparantly awake now.

There weren't any cabs in sight. In fact, there weren't even very many cars. Everything was in walking distance, luckily, and the all-knowing Sherlock led us right up to a small motel.

When we walked in we were greeted by a charming little living area that still appeared to have it's original furniture from the 1800s. There were a few oil paintings on the walls and it smelled of pine. It was dark, in contrast to the sunny day outside and there wasn't a person in sight until Sherlock walked up to the desk in the middle of the room and rang the bell.

A teenaged girl emerged from a door on the left. She had ash-blonde hair that came to her shoulders and pale skin. Her face was freckled and her eyes were a piercing green in contrast to her otherwise dull features. She gave a small smile and opened the large guestbook, taking out a pen.

"Good afternoon, guys. Can you write your names here? How many rooms will you be needing?"

She was smiling, but John could tell she was unenthused. John gave a small smile back and Sherlock continued with his cold stare as he answered her.

"I called last night. We have reserved two rooms. One under Holmes and one under Lestrade"

She looked in the guestbook and found both names, nodding and silently turning to fetch their keys. She turned to face the men again and her smile had left her face, replaced by an indifferent expression.

"Here are your keys. The rooms are right next to each other, upstairs. Rooms 12 and 14"

The fake smile returned to her face for an instant before Sherlock, John, and Greg all ascended the small staircase to their rooms. The hallway was narrow and dark and their rooms were almost at the end, across from each other.

"We'll take some time to get settled and in about an hour we meet for lunch, yeah?" John said. Lestrade nodded and John followed Sherlock into their room.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock!" John breathed, dropping his bags and sighing.

"What is it, John?" Sherlock asked, genuinely curious.

"You've booked us a double room."

"And?"

"There's only one bed, Sherlock!"

"It's a double bed, John"

"Christ.." John mumbled, annoyed. He figured arguing would just make things worse, so he shut up. Sleeping in the same bed with Sherlock wouldn't be so bad. It was just annoying that he could've gotten three rooms, or a room with _two_ beds. Sometimes the genius just doesn't think.

John set his bag on the bed and began unpacking, placing his razor and shaving cream on the bathroom sink, along with shampoo and hair product. Apparently, Sherlock had counted on John to provide him with these things, because all he had packed were two suits- one grey, one black- and his pyjama bottoms. When the room was all set, John found the bookcase and Sherlock found his mind palace. There they stayed, with Sherlock on the bed and John in the armchair reading a novel. It just happened to be a mystery, and John had only picked it up because everything else appeared to be falling apart. The name of the book had faded away, but he knew that the author was Arthur Conan Doyle.

When John checked the time, he decided it was time to head out for a late lunch. He revived Sherlock from his lucid state and left to room to knock on Lestrade's door. Sherlock came out of the room moments later, and the three left for lunch together at a cafe they had passed on their way to the motel. It was cheery, quite a difference from the motel. The walls were painted a soft yellow the sun wasshining through every window. They were greeted immediately by a short waitress who looked to be in her early twenties and sat at a small, rectangular table, near the window.

"So, what do we do first? Look at the crime scene?" John asked after the short waitress, who's name was Connie, took their drink order.

"I wish to speak with James McCarthey. Where is he?" Sherlock asked, turning to Lestrade.

"They're holding him in the jail. We can see him tonight if you want, just need to make a few calls."

"Lovely" Sherlock said with a small smile.

"They're not going to like this, though, so many people visiting him. He isn't supposed to have visitors. I'm breaking the rules just getting you in there"

"Then perhaps it's best if John hang back." answered Sherlock, thoughtfully. "D'you mind?" he asked.

John did mind, but he just shrugged his shoulders and said "no worries".

When Connie came back, she took their order. Lestrade ordered a hamburger and John ordered fish and chips. Sherlock didn't order anything, but John knew that he would probably eat half of his chips. He didn't mind, though. If the man would only eat if it was off of John's plate, then John was going to let him.

They ate most of their meal in silence. Lestrade being there was strange for them, as they usually enjoyed meals alone together. John got barely any of his chips and when they were finished, Lestrade offered to pay. John left the tip and, after Lestrade had made a few calls, he and Sherlock made their way to the jail. Greg said it was about a forty minute walk to the jail and not to expect them back until at least five. They waved goodbye and John made his way back to the motel, alone.

It was five-o-clock, and they still weren't back. John had finished his novel and spent some time on his phone, surfing the internet. He was hungry, despite his late lunch, so he decided to return to the cafe to get some take-away. Lestrade's hamburger had looked good earlier, after all, and the few chips he had gotten were very tasty. Connie wasn't there when he arrived, but instead there was a a thin, olive-skinned girl with auburn hair there to take his order. 

"Yours will be ready in just a few minutes, sweetie." She said with a gentle, yet powerful voice. She smiled at him and continued, "I haven't seen you around. Visiting?"

"Actually, I'm here to investigate the murder of Charles McCarthey."

Her eyes widened and he mouth dropped open. It was somewhat comical, but John didn't laugh.

"You're Sherlock Holmes?" She asked

"John Watson. I'm his.." He struggled to find the right word until he said, "..partner"

"Blimey! Wow, I can't believe it! Pleasure to meet you, sir. I'm Elizabeth. Elizabeth Turner. Everyone calls me Liz."

She shook his hand and John chuckled at her excitement.

"Nice to meet you." he replied

"I'm the woman who called for you guys, actually. James is a good friend of mine, ya see. My dad is the McCarthey's landlord, and we're next door neighbors."

"Oh, so you know James well, then? "

"Oh yeah. I'm telling you, Mr. Watson, he wouldn't hurt a fly! Anyone who knows James would tell ya that!"

Just then, his food came out of the swinging kitchen doors and was handed to Liz. She took it with a smile and gave it to John.

"Even so, Liz, we can't be too sure. Sherlock will probably be 'round to see you later. Thanks." John smiled, handed her a ten and left. By the time he arrived back at his room, Sherlock had arrived back.

"Hey, sorry, I just got take-away" said John apologetically. Sherlock waved him away as he grabbed a chip from the open box on the desk and chewed thoughtfully before sitting down in the armchair in the corner of the room.

"His story is very interesting." said Sherlock. "I'm almost certain he's innocent."

"Oh, really? How's that?"

"Well, he said that he wasn't actually following his father. He had no idea that he was in front of him, actually. He was going to the lake to shoot some ducks and when he found his ather there, they started quarreling. He turned to leave before it got violent, but when he had almost got to the road he heard his father yell in pain. He ran back to find him almost dead on the ground. The interesting part is that he said he saw a grey jacket lying on the ground some fifteen meters from his father, and he passed it on his way to him. After his father had died, he turned to find that it had vanished."

"That's odd." The doctor answered, taking a bite of his hamburger. After he'd swallowed, he asked, "What were they arguing about?"

"He wouldn't tell me"

"Why not?"

"I don't know."

John thought for a moment. "Why does that prove he's innocent?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John, if he were concocting a story like that, why would he be so imaginative as to think of a disappearing coat, but not of an argument?"

He had a point. John nodded in understanding and finished his burger in silence before telling him about Liz from the cafe.

"Ah, yes, I did want to chat with the woman who called. We'll see her tomorrow night after we inspect the crime scene." And with that, Sherlock glided into the bathroom and emerged two minutes later in pyjama bottoms and no shirt. John averted his eyes as best as he could, but he couldn't help his eyes lingering on the toned chest of his friend a bit longer than necessary.

_Oh god. We're sharing a bed, now. _

"Goodnight, John" said Sherlock, and he plopped under the covers and turned out the light. John then changed into his nightclothes and joined him. The bed was a full-size, so it was a bit cramped. No, it was very cramped. John tried to stay as close to the edge as possible, but gave up and eventually fell asleep against Sherlock's back. Sherlock didn't mind.

And, as much as he didn't care to admit it, John didn't really mind either.

**Okay, thanks for reading, and please review! I want to know what you think and what I can improve on!**

**and I think the next chapter will be ALL JOHNLOCK and no mystery, because I feel that you deserve it and I kinda deserve it. Actually writing a plot is tedious! :P**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey! So, I was so freakin' excited about this purely Johnlock chapter and I was looking forward to all the fluffy/angsty goodness SO FREAKIN' MUCH...**

**I decided to write it and post it ASAP.**

**Which is now. **

**ENJOY!**

The emotions John felt when he woke up were very odd.

First, he was content. He was warm, the sun was peeking through the blinds, everything felt like it was as it should be. He hadn't woken up like this for months, mostly because he woke up next to Mary every morning.

Second, he was confused. There was somebody with him. Someone's arms were around him and he could feel the warmth of their body against his. They were breathing against his hair.

Third, he was.. well... He didn't know how he was. Sherlock was the person wrapped around him. I guess you could say he was VERY confused at this point. What happened? Had they done anything? Why doesn't he remember? A crazy thought passed through his head when he realized that his clothes were safely upon his body, and a sigh of relief left his mouth. He lifted his head and turned it to look at Sherlock, who was definitely awake.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"What are you doing?"

"You are referring to the way we are positioned at the moment."

"Yes, Sherlock. How did you guess?"

"At approximately 3:54 AM your pulse quickened and you started sweating. When your hands started twitching, I recognized this as a nightmare. I decided to assist, although I didn't want to wake you, so I decided to wrap my arms around you. Your subconcious would recognize this as maternal nurturing and immediately calm down. I am merely assisting you"

"So why didn't you let go when I calmed down?"

"It was comfortable"

John couldn't believe this. They had _cuddled _the whole night. Fabulous. He hoped nobody could see them through the window. People woud _definitely _talk. He decided he'd better get out of this compromising position, but he lingered a few seconds before finally doing so. Sherlock was right. It _was_ comfortable.

"I'm going to get a shower." said John. Sherlock nodded and got up. He'd showered last night, before John was back, so he got dressed and yelled at the bathroom door.

"I'm going to see if Miss Turner is at work this morning. Meet me for breakfast when you're showered."

He didn't stay long enough to hear John's reply. He was out the door and down the stairs as quick as a fox, headed toward the cafe at full speed.

08080808080

John arrived at the cafe half an hour later to find the detective at the same table they had eaten at the day before.

"I told Lestrade we were getting breakfast, but he wasn't interested. He'll meet us at the crime scene later" said John, sitting down across from Sherlock. "Did you talk to Liz? Was she in?"

"Yes, I did. I asked her what the two might've been arguing about, and I got an answer. Apparently, Mr. McCarthey was very adament about Liz and James getting married."

"Really?" John said, surprised. Most parents didn't arrange marriages anymore. It seemed very odd.

"Yes. James, however, is in a committed relationship... with a man."

John choked on the tea that had been placed in front of him moments earlier.

"Naturally, Mr. McCarthey has no idea about this. Anyway, he wants the two to get married, but James obviously wants no part in it."

"Shame that Liz has to get dragged into all this." John said. He immediately felt bad for the girl. That's not a fun situation to get put into.

"Shame, indeed." answered Sherlock. "Apparently, she's been in love with him for years. Then she found out he was gay, and she was heartbroken"

"Oh, dear..." said John, sadly. He felt even worse now.

"I know." answered Sherlock. John saw that even he looked a bit sad at this news. They were quiet after that, and whenever John looked up at Sherlock, he seemed gloomy. Gloomier than usual.

"Anything wrong?" John ventured. One wrong move and Sherlock would close off completely. He had to play this right.

"Oh, nothing." He said, trying to appear nonchalent. He swallowed hard and looked at John, giving him a small smile. The doctor returned the smile, but he knew something was wrong. He knew he wouldn't be able to get it out of him, though, so he let it be for the time being.

The waitress brought their food and John lit up to see that Sherlock was eating something. He had ordered a bowl of fresh fruit. John looked down at his oatmeal and toast and smiled to see that Sherlock actually did pay attention. She laid down a basket of little jam packets on the table before leaving. Sherlock picked at his fruit before looking up at John and asking a startling question.

"So. How's Mary?"

"Fine."

"Mhmm"

John was suddenly uncomfortable. Why was he uncomfortable? Mary was his wife. People ask about your wife in conversation. This was different, though. Sherlock didn't make smalltalk. He knew. Dammit. He always knew. John cleared his throat and threw down his napkin.

"So, how d'you know, then?" John asked, knowing it was just a matter of time.

"Hmm?"

"How do you know that Mary and I are having problems?"

"I didn't until now. I had my suspicions, though."

"Obviously"

Of course he used that trick. God, sometimes he hated this git. He went back to his oatmeal until Sherlock's peircing stare became too much. He looked up and their eyes met, and John just laid down his spoon and began explaining.

"Look, you know just as well as I do that I wasn't really happy in the beginning, and then the assassin thing and... and the _baby_"

John swallowed. Was he really talking about this to Sherlock? The man probably doesn't even care. He's probably just experimenting on marriage longevity or something. Still, John felt the need to pour his heart out to the detective, and he listened throughout the entire time. When he was finished, he didn't know whether or not to cry or flip the table. All these emotions that were supressed had just come to the surface. He leaned back in his chair, distressed, with his hands still glued to the table. He looked down at his now cold oatmeal and tried to calm down, think about something else. This was just a nice breakfast with his friend. Why did he have to bring this up? He closed his eyes and felt a warm hand suddenly snake over his, and when he looked up he saw an equally distressed Sherlock with a frown on his lips.

"I'm sorry, John" he said quietly.

John didn't know if he was apologizing for bringing it up, or showing his remorse for what happened, but John didn't care. At that moment he saw just how much Sherlock cared for him. He saw the sadness in those beautiful eyes and for just a moment, he felt the overwhelming urge to kiss the wonderful man in front of him. He didn't, though. He just said, "Thank you" and didn't move his hand until Sherlock got a call from Lestrade to come to the crime scene. Sherlock looked up and carefully started to slide his hand away before John grabbed it and gave it a small squeeze before letting it go. The detective's eyes widened, but John was too busy paying to see it. They both left with a wave to the waitress and made their way toward Boscombe Lake.

**YAY so it was really angsty. And short. Like, I wasn't even expecting it to be that angsty, and I'm the one writing it. There is a little fluff if you squint, though. So anyway YAY FOR THIS CHAPTER. I'm on a roll today :D (Cue Breakfast Club theme song)**

**PLEASE REVIEW. Every review = a piece of cake for Mycroft **


	4. Chapter 4

**Hey guys! I hate to keep you waiting, and I thankfully had time to write another chapter today. The mystery will be SOLVED in this chapter, woopee!**

**Don't be alarmed, but this chapter has a few swear words from our dear little hedgehog :P**

**Johnlock is fast approaching my friends, don't worry :)**

#####

_ This man is brilliant. This man is extraoridinary. I love this man. There, I said it. I am in love with this man._

These were the thoughts traversing John Watson's head in that split second in which he had decided to take Sherlock's hand. He took it in his own, gave it a small squeeze, then let go and paid the check.

_Stupid. Stupid! I shouldn't have done that. Dammit, I shouldn't have done that!_

John internally scolded himself. He made a point not to look at Sherlock while he paid, so he hadn't noticed. He hadn't noticed the detective's eyes widen in surprise and his lips part slightly. He didn't notice the taller man staring at him on their way out. He didn't hear the argument Sherlock was having with himself in his mind palace about whether or not he should take John's hand as they made their way to the lake. John didn't look at him, so John hadn't noticed.

Sherlock, as it turns out, had not taken John's hand. They walked in silence until they arrived at the crime scene. Lestrade and another man greeted them whome John presumed to be the sheriff.

The lake was beautiful. It was surrounded by a thick wood with various walking trails weaving all about. There was a small dock going out onto the lake where one might've fished if the area hadn't been closed off by police. Sherlock walked at a steady pace towards the two policemen while John ambled behind, taking in the scenery. He thought this to be a nice place to go on holiday. He'd have to remember that.

John didn't hear the conversation between Sherlock and the officers, he only saw lips moving and then Sherlock darting off in the direction of where the body had once laid. The loyal doctor followed.

The detective was all over the scene. He would run to random places about the grass, sometimes inspecting a certain area with great interest, and then skimming over large patches. He eventually made his way to a large tree about fifteen meters from where the body had been. He began looking through his pocket magnifier at the patch of bare ground behind it with interest, then produced an evidence bag from his coat and scooped up some dirt.

"What're you doing?" inquired John. Surely he couldn't be collecting _dirt_ as evidence, could he? 

Sherlock didn't answer, simply looking up and giving a snarky smile. Something seemed to catch his eye at the tree's base, then, and he quickly picked up a large rock that was lying there. He inspected it with his magnifier, smelled it, turned it in his hand, and nodded. Standing up, he said,

"We're finished here, John. Come on"

"What? What could you have _possibly_ gotten from a rock and a pile of dirt?"

"Everything, John."

He then made a dramatic exit and John hurried after him, apologizing to the sheriff for his friend's behavior ("Why didn't he give me the bloody evidence bag?") and ran after him. Sherlock was already halfway to the motel before John fully caught up with him.

"What the bloody hell aren't you telling me?" John exclaimed, out of breath. Sherlock just gave his snarky smile again and replied,

"I'll tell you when I've examined the evidence thoroughly."

"What bloody evidence? You've got a rock and a pile of dirt! Last I checked you aren't Jack bloody Sparrow!"

Sherlock chuckled and sped up his pace- much to John's despair and annoyance- eventually leading John to the motel and into their room. He then promptly glided over to the small desk in the corner and dumped the bag of dirt upon it. John cringed at the mess he'd have to clean up and sat on the bed as Sherlock began movind the contents around, seperating the dark from the light. When the two groups were successfully seperated, he focused his attention on the smaller dark pile, smelling it and touching it. He rubbed it between his fingers and tasted it before springing up, absolutely pleased with himself, and turning to a perplexed John.

"Yes!" He exclaimed, "Definitely Camel brand, non-menthol, low tar. Lighted with a match, not a lighter."

John screwed up his face and dipped his chin. What had just happened? When John was quiet for a minute, Sherlock let out an exasperated moan and dramatice swung his arms in the air before exclaiming loudly,

"Ash, John! It's ASH!"

Ash. Tobacco ash. Sherlock was inspecting tobacco ash. John looked at him for a moment, connecting this in his brain before bursting in a fit of laughter. He had to prop himself up on the bed to prevent himself from falling on the floor. Sherlock just looked confused.

"What? What is so funny?"

John tried to compose himself- succeeding slightly- before answering,

"Sher- Sherlock!" He said in between giggles, "Who the fuck would've guessed that your stupid ash would actually help with a case?"

John was almost of the floor again. Never in his five years of knowing Sherlock did he ever think in a million years, that his ridiculous knowledge of 143 types of tobacco ash would ever be useful in the slightest. In fact, he often made fun of Sherlock for it. This is hilarious. This was mad. He couldn't contain himself. He laughed for a minute longer before composing himself and letting Sherlock explain.

"If you're finished," Sherlock said coldly, "I will explain."

"Please do"

"This rock,"The detective announced, taking the rock in hand, "is the murder weapon"

"How do you know that?"

"It was laying atop the vegetation, which had been flattened, so it had been set down there in the last few days. That wasn't it's natural resting place. If you look closely, it has small traces of blood on it, though most has been wiped away. Furthermore, when visiting the sheriff's office I was shown photographs of the body. I filed them safely away in my mind palace and have naturally been closely inspecting them ever since. I've concluded that those injuried were most likely sustained with this rock."

"Brilliant"

"Quite." Sherlock said with a smile. "And now we know that the murderer smokes Camel Non-Menthol, low tar cigarettes and lights them with a match. The ash I retrieved is week old and so is the ash found on this rock."

"John gaped. He had gotten all this from dirt and a rock. John once again recognized the brilliance of this man. The urge to kiss him came once more, and it once again passed.

"We also know that James McCarthey does not smoke, therefore he is not the murderer." Sherlock finished.

"So, who is it, then?" Asked John. He was relieved that they'd cleared and innocent man, but no they were back to square one. How were they going to find the murderer based on the type of cigarette he smokes?

"He'll be arriving shortly."

John gaped once again.

"You invited a murderer to our motel room?"

"Of course"

John sighed. He wondered why he was so in love with this man. God, what _was_ wrong with him? Before he could answer this question, there was a knock on the door and Sherlock eagerly ran to open it. When he did, a sullen looking man entered the room.

he was tall and startlingly thin, his eyes sunken and his cheeks concave. His skin was a light grey and he was bald. In fact, he didn't even have eyebrows.

The man looked as though he hadn't eaten in weeks and a small gust of wind would carry him from the spot. He greeted them with a gruff "Hullo" and immediately sat down in the armchair, as though the walk here had tired him out for the day. John, being a medical man, recognized this man's symptoms immediately.

"Stage four lung cancer, I presume?" Sherlock inquired.

"Why, yessir." He replied sheepishly.

Sherlock sat on the bed next to John, assuming is cold and calculated stare, and spoke again,

"I've invited you here to ask some questions about Mr McCarthey's murder. I know you were quite close to him." 

"S'pose you could say that." said the man, "Mind if I smoke?"

"Not at all."

The man then reached into his large grey coat and pulled out a pack of Camels. Sherlock observed that they were non-menthol and low tar. Perfect. He put on to his lips and reached again in his pocket to retrieve a book of matches. Striking it on the box, he lit the cigarette, taking a long drag before taking it out of his mouth and sighing.

"We know it was you, Mr. Turner" whispered Sherlock simply. The man looked up and his eyebrows shot up before he slowly broke down in silent tears.

"Mr. Holmes, please. I had to do it. I had to do it for my Elizabeth. You must understand!"

"Elizabeth from the cafe?" Asked John. He remembered she had said that her father was Mr. McCarthey's landlord.

He nodded and looked at Sherlock, who beckoned him to continue.

"I have done things- in my business- that I am not proud of. I've lied and cheated, all for greed. I've since stopped, turned over a new leaf, you know? Except Charles found out somehow... He was a horrible man, Mr. Holmes!"

He took a drag of his cigarette and wiped his now sweaty forehead before continuing.

"I have a few houses that I rent out to people. It's one of my businesses, ya see. He demanded that I let him live in one for free, or he'd tell the IRS about my business dealings. I had to appease him, Mr. Holmes. After that he would always ask for money from me, favors, always using th blackmail card on me. He nearly ruined my life!"

Another drag, another wipe, and he continued,

"I couldn't comply with his last demand, though. He wanted my daughter to marry his son, James. He wanted the estate in his family, you know. He was going to force us into it. Elizabeth doesn't know anything about his blackmail, but he was forcing me to convince her into marriage. I can't do that to my little girl, Mr. Holmes. If I hadn't killed him he would've had my whole estate and my daughter would be unhappily married. if I had told the truth, I'd have gone to jail and Elizabeth would be heartbroken! Please understand, Mr. Holmes. I had to! I am truly sorry for what I have done, but I would've done the same tomorrow, Mr. Holmes. He was a horrible man!"

Sherlock nodded in understanding and frowned. Mr. Turner continued,

"I have a month to live. I can't go to jail now and I can't let Lizzy know! She can't know! Please!"

Sherlock thought for a moment, his brow furrowing and his lips frowning. He slowly lifted his eyes which had been fixed on the floor and started quietly speaking.

"If you don't mind, I need you to write a signed confession for us. There are pens and paper on the desk. We have enough evidence to clear Mr. McCarthey and I will not use the confession unless absolutely necessary. Do you understand?"

John looked, open-mouthed, at Sherlock. He was in disbelief. Was Sherlock actually being considerate? He didn't even know this man, yet he was helping him. Sherlock was the most unpredictable person John had ever met.

Mr. Turner quietly wrote out a confession and signed it. He handed it to Sherlock.

"Mr. Holmes, I can't thank you enough"

Sherlock just nodded and Mr. Turner left, slowly closing the door behind him.

"I can't believe that." said John with a smile plastered on his face

"What?"

"You were nice"

"Aren't people generally nice, John?"

"You're not people."

Sherlock returned the smile, then, and was quiet until John piped up.

"I suppose we should go and get James cleared, then." Said John quietly.

"Tomorrow. I don't feel like Lestrade today. Let's enjoy our time here. It is really nice, isn't it?"

John smiled in agreement, and they headed into town. It was only 11:00 now, so they had almost the whole day to themselves. Not having a lot of time to explore the small town earlier, it was nice to be able to make their way through the narrow streets and see evrything they could see. They made their way to Main Street and John suggested they get an early lunch at a pizza place called "Ray's Pizza".

They had outdoor seating, so John brought two paper plates of pizza out to a table in the shade where Sherlock was waiting. He was nibbling on a breadstick when John arrived, and he didn't even acknowledge the pizza that had been set on the table.

John sat and began on a slice of pizza while Sherlock continued with his breadstick.

"Thanks, by the way, for this morning." John said in between bites. He looked up at Sherlock who'd set his breadstick down and appeared to be thinking.

"What do you mean?" He asked

"You listened to my problems this morning. You tried to make me feel better. Thanks"

He returned to his pizza

"John"

"Yes?"

"Did I succeed?"

"Hmm?"

"Was I successful in making you feel better?"

John looked at him again while he chewed, his face containing a look of both question and surprise. After he'd swallowed, he gave a small smile and replied,

"Yes, Sherlock, you did."

The detective looked surprised, then pleased. He returned to his breadstick, which John took as a good sign. Sherlock was happy that he'd helped him, and this pleased John more than anything. He knew now that his friend truly cared for him, and that meant the world to him.

Their legs lightly brushed under the table, and they both blushed. Neither knew if it was accidental or not, but neither could argue that when John took Sherlock's hand while they were sitting at their small table in the shade, it was not an accident. When John did this, both their blushes deepened and Sherlock's head jerked up.

_Shit. Shit. What are you doing, Watson? _

He was about to break away and mumble something about seeing a cut on his hand when Sherlock tightened his grip. It was John's turn to jerk his head up, and when their eyes met Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Thank you for lunch, John." He said, and then slid his hand from John's grip and returned, once again, to his breadstick. He'd been working on it for half an hour and hadn't even eaten half of it. He seemed nervous, now, though, and was chomping away as if he had never eaten a breadstick before. John didn't know if this was a good or a bad sign, but he said nothing as he paid the check, save to ask Sherlock if he was going to eat his slice. When he got the answer he had expected, he grabbed it and ate it as they walked away.

They walked through the town for quite a while, just admiring the old architecture and the charming little shops. Sometimes they talked about whatever happened to come up at the time, sometimes they were silent.

Before they knew it, they were in front of the motel again, and realized that the town must go in some sort of circle. Checking his watch, Sherlock saw that it was 3:47 and they both decided they'd better go back to their room.

When they entered, Sherlock collapsed upon the bed and John sat in the armchair, and he rest of the day was spent discussing the case and how they were going to approach Lestrade and the police about it tomorrow.

And while both men seemed to have their minds on the case at hand, both of them were thinking about their day together and that brief moment when they held hands. For Sherlock, it had come as a pleasant surprise, and he hadn't known how to react. John's touch sent chills down his spine.

For John, the feeling was wariness. He was so unsure of how to proceed, so unsure of what to do. It had seemed like the right thing to do in the moment, yet now he was second guessing. He didn't know what to think.

Was this really what love felt like? He wasn't sure. He had had never felt like this with Mary.

In fact, he had never come close to feeling this.

**Sexual tension is about the hardest thing to write, and I hope it didn't make them seem like teenaged girls. Of course, when writing about two gay babies, I guess it's okay if they seem a bit immature xD **

**PLEASE REVIEW. **

**:D**


	5. Chapter 5

**Hey friends... I know I haven't updated in a few days because I've been completely busy/exhausted, but here we go. **

**Enjoy!**

John awoke that morning the same way in which we woke the previous one: In Sherlock's arms. Their position was almost identical to the last one. with John halfway on his side and Sherlock just behind him, an arm draped lazily yet purposefully over his waist. The detective's chin rested on the top of John's head, and he could hear the deep and even breathing coming from above him. Yes, it was almost identical. Identical except for the fact that instead of protesting, John just lay in the comfort and safety of the detective's arms. He couldn't remember a nightmare last night, but he didn't care. The two lay together in the early hours of the morning, content. John soon drifted back to sleep, and was only awakened by the gravelly voice of Greg Lestrade and a banging on the door.

"We leave for the police station in an hour! You'd best get ready!" the DI yelled, and the two reluctantly untangled themselves and got out of bed to shower and dress. Sherlock was first too shower, followed by John, and soon they were both ready to go. They met Lestrade for a quick breakfast at the cafe, and then they were off to the police station to try and clear James McCarthey.

The nest few hours were tedious to say the least. Sherlock and John explained to the police, as best they could, the innocence of James McCarthey. It wasn't an easy task. They, of course, could not use their confession- which was tucked away inside Sherlock's coat- unless absolutely necessary, so they went on the evidence they had collected, which was very little if you didn't have Sherlock's brain.

There were raised voices and a large number of _Obviously_s coming from the small corner office of the polic station, and eventually they succeeded in clearing the young man. A relieved John, a tired Lestrade, and an annoyed Sherlock left the police station and headed back to the motel in order to pack and check out. Lestrade had informed them over breakfast that their train left at 2:00 PM that day, so they had about two hours to pack and catch the train.

So, when they got back to their room, Sherlock cleaned the dirt from the small desk- the ash was turned in as evidence- and John put away the novel that had been left laying on the floor by the armchair. Then the two packed without a word, as Sherlock was far too annoyed at the inferiority of the average brain at the moment to keep idle conversation, and walked to the train station.

When they had boarded, Lestrade opted for his own compartment, leaving the other two on their own, much to Sherlock's pleasure. Sherlock immediately plopped into a seat and started reading one of the many medical textbooks he had stolen from John, and John sat across from him, looking out the window. Their ride was quiet until John got a text about halfway through. It was from Mary.

**Coming home sometime this year? -M**

John sighed and typed a reply. She was angry. Great.

**On my way. -JW**

He then tossed his phone lightly to the seat next to him and put his head in his hands. Sherlock pretended not to notice until John slumped back in his seat, uncovering his face and speaking quietly.

"I'm going to have to divorce her." He said, realization in his voice. He had known it was a long time coming, known it would happen eventually, but he'd never admitted it. He'd never actually said the word divorce out loud, and he realized it tasted bitter in his mouth. It had to happen, though, because he also realized that every time he had wondered about how they were going to fix it was in vain. He didn't _want_ to fix it. He wanted out. Somehow, he thought he always had. Sherlock looked up from his book and answered,

"I think that's the best option, John."

And just like that, silence fell again. Sherlock read and John watched day turn into evening through the window, worrying about how he was going to broach the subject of seperation to Mary. He dreaded his arrival home.

#####

When they arrived in London, Sherlock had to shake John- who had fallen asleep- awake. They unboarded the train and bade Lestrade goodbye, and John was just about to hail a cab to bring him home, when he turned and walked back onto the platform toward Sherlock. He halted in front of him, and Sherlock had just enough time to don a questioning expression before he was pulled into a tight hug.

The detective was confused at first to have the doctor in his arms, but he said nothing and simply hugged back, hoping to squeeze away all of the obvious stress and worry that had taken over John's mind. He hoped he was succeeding.

"Thank you" mumbled John into Sherlock's jacket

"What for?"

"Everything," he answered. It was true. Over the past few days, Sherlock had helped him more than he or anyone would ever know. He'd listened to him, was considerate towards him. It was the best few days he'd had in three years and he didn't want it to end. He deepened the hug, moving his head so his chin rested on the detective's shoulder. Then John did something. He didn't know why he did it, but it seemed like the best thing to do. He placed a small and gentle kiss below Sherlock's ear, just behind his jaw.

John could feel Sherlock's whole body stiffen at this, but his grip did not loosen, so he ventured another kiss right on the detectives cheekbone. Sherlock closed his eyes at this and tightened his grip on the doctor, who took this as an invitation to move toward his lips.

They locked eyes and John leaned in ever so slowly, niether shifting their gaze until their lips were barely a centimeter apart. John then closed his eyes, ready to take the plunge, but was caught by surprise when it was Sherlock who closed the small gap between them.

The kiss was gentle, yet passionate. Hesitant, yet full of longing. Sherlock felt fire race down his spine and warmth spread over his shoulders, and John felt content and happy for the first time in years. The kiss only lasted a few seconds but, when they pulled away, they were both breathing heavily. John got down of his tip-toes that he just realized he was on and cleared his throat. Sherlock was gazing at John with his lips parted, startled and elated at what had just happened, and John gave an awkward smile.

"Come on." John said, and hailed a cab with Sherlock in his wake. They both got in and John directed the cabbie toward Baker street. Sherlock had a confused expression, and when John saw it, he stated,

"I don't think I can go back to Mary's tonight. I'll sort everything tomorrow." and with that, he picked up his phone and sent a quick text before turning it off

**won't be home tonight. we need to talk. -JW**

That night, John fell asleep, once again, in Sherlock's arms. As he drifted off, safe and comfortable in with the man he loved, he knew this is where he was meant to be. This was his home. Skulls on the mantelpiece, eyeballs in the microwave, and Sherlock by his side. He fell asleep with a smile on his face.

**AWWW WASN'T THAT CUTE. Okay, so this concludes this johnlock tale, but I'm already working on a sequel in which there will be another ACD mystery, and John and Sherlock adjust to their new relationship. **

**Mary will be in it, as well, but I haven't decided how much yet... ;)**

**I hope y'all enjoyed and I would LOVE a review! or two! or six! Mycroft would be very appreciative!**

**until we meet again...**

**~Colleen**


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